


Mormories

by Conduitstreetcat, MoonShineD



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Kitten, M/M, Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 14:43:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16955937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Conduitstreetcat/pseuds/Conduitstreetcat, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonShineD/pseuds/MoonShineD
Summary: No angst. No smut. Just kittens and turkey and christmas film fluff.... that's probably why it is so short.





	Mormories

I'm stuffed. I'm so incredibly stuffed. I am sure I'm twice as wide as I was yesterday. I'll never fit into any of my tight jeans ever again. It's only with superhuman determination that I manage to clear the dishes into the dishwasher before I drag myself into the living room, where you are stretched out on the sofa. It never ceases to amaze me how such a small man can take up an entire three-seater, draped dramatically. "Move over," I nudge you aside, flopping in the corner, taking you in my arms and pulling you against my shoulder. "That. Was the most decadent Christmas dinner. EVER. And I grew up in an aristocratic household."

 

 

_"You're just saying that to be nice." I *let* you cuddle me. I want it but you can't know that... Too often._

_"It was terrible. Horrendous. Atrocity to bia. Ta aimhreas le Dia!"_

_I *might* be pouting._

_A bit._

_A wee itty bitty bit._

 

 

"You're having a giraffe. It was *amazing*. The only reason I didn't eat more is because I would have exploded like Mr Creosote. Bloody hell, Jim. I know we're an amazing team... but I think we're wasted as crime lords. We should start a restaurant. Turkeys will line up to be allowed to give their life in our oven. God, that was... perfection."

 

 

_"Yeah. Your part. I'm still bollocks at my part." I followed your directions! (mostly, kinda sorta, maybe, maybe not). "Least the potatoes turned out mildly not mediocre." If it wasn't for you we would've starved. STARVED I SAY! STARVED!_

 

 

"The potatoes were manna from heaven. Sheer ambrosia. Crispy on the outside, soft and crumbly on the inside, perfectly spiced... god, I really shouldn't think about food... I'm _so_ full up..."

I brush my hand over your chest and belly - even you have a slightly bloated tummy after that meal.

"Can we talk about something else than food? Anything?"

 

 

_"You want to forget it too? Ok." Just keep petting me, but not the tummy. "Murder? Madness? Mayhem? Me? What's your pleasure?"_

 

 

"James Moriarty, your cooking skills are only marginally less legendary than your talents for all of the above... But it's Christmas, so I'm going for door number four - you. Not counting the gourmet extravaganza that was this year, what was your favourite Christmas ever?"

 

 

_I love it when you pet me and tell me how perfect I am. Those are the best._

_"The one where we *actually ***** ruined dinner."_

_The smoke. The flames. Stealing someone else's. Perfect._

_"I still blame you for that."_

 

 

" _Me?!_ " I gasp incredulously. "How on earth was that _anything_ to do with me!? You tried to use a _flame thrower_ to brown the turkey!"

 

 

_Pfft_

_"1," I tick the reasons off on your fingers, "your arse distracted me which is why I forgot to turn the oven on." Good times._

_"2, the blow job was worth any and all amounts of burnt stovetop style stuffing."_

_I put the tip of your middle finger in my mouth briefly as if to mimic the previously mentioned blow job._

_"3, *you ***** missed the eggs when I threw them..." Not my fault you were looking in the cold oven and not paying attention to me..._

_"I have at least four more perfectly valid reasons."_

 

 

"Stop it, you're making me laugh, and that hurts my stomach... God, Jim Moriarty, you were a _disaster_ in the kitchen. You have the attention span of a gnat when anything other than crime or sex is concerned. You could burn water. I would say I have done a _tremendous_ job of coaching you. I deserve a promotion."

 

 

_"The only further up the ladder is to take over my job." Hmm… "Maybe you should do that. I can be a stay-at-home Daddy."_

_... Who would very quickly go insane._

 

 

I laugh. “Yes, I’m sure Lucy would love that - sleep together on the sofa all day, stalk birds on the balcony, divide mice up between you... Nah, you can remain in charge. I prefer to be in the more hands-on position anyway. Speaking of hands-on...” My voice drifts away as soon as I’ve started voicing it. No - contrary to my usual mood, I can’t imagine engaging in any physical activity right now. I settle for a simple patting of your arm.

 

 

_I look at where your arm ended up, then back at you. Different. I raise an eyebrow to ask if you're ok. The responding smile says that you're much more than ok. I push and pull and prod and scoot until you are lying on the couch and I'm lying between you and the backrest. Mostly you. "What was your favourite?" LucyFur has decided she is done eating, for now. She jumps onto your chest and immediately starts kneading at your shirt._

 

 

I close my eyes, wallowing in domestic bliss with my two psycho kittens in my arms. Who'd ever have thought...

I look back on the Christmases we've had. It's beyond consideration that my favourite Christmas would be one with you.

A smile creeps around my lips.

"The one in Siberia," I state.

You move slightly, so you can see my face. "Really?" you ask.

"I know," I reply. "It was cold, it was dark, we had sandwiches for dinner - but - you had got those sandwiches _specifically_ for Christmas, because you knew we'd be stuck there. You'd even brought my favourite whisky. And - we were huddled together under a blanket for warmth, getting slowly drunk on that whisky, and we just talked all night, about anything and everything, so open in the darkness in that cold perpetual night...

I thought I couldn't love you more than I did that night."

 

 

_I lift a hand to lightly pinch your cheeks, which is harder than it looks when you're smiling ear to ear like that. "You are so precious when you're being all lovey-dovey." I settle back down and pull a sleeping kitty down from my face and lower to my chest. "What do you think our baby girl’s favourite is? Her first involved all six pounds of her bringing down a Christmas tree."_

 

 

"I'm sure that was her favourite - seeing how passionate she is about destruction, much like her daddy, I would think that that time where she destroyed thousands of pounds of baubles in one leap would feature high on her list. Also, it's when she first met her favourite human," I smile, looking at her purring loudly on your chest. She's been mad about you since she first lay eyes on you, that destructive Christmas Eve. Whenever you sit down, she'll be on your lap, she sleeps on top of you, and when you go out she'll look at the door mournfully and rush at it at every little sound. You even worked out a method of balancing your laptop and cat on your lap at the same time. I smile - you're so alike. Destructive, lethal, ruthless, and utterly utterly cute...

 

 

_"Would it help if I told you you are her second most favourite person?"_

_I whisper into Lucy's ear that her Papa is my most favourite human. Looking at Lu makes me yawn and stretch out a bit. "So. What do we do now that there's nothing to fix or destroy?"_

 

 

"You honour me, gorgeous... I thought you were the favourite human of all three of us," I grin. "I don't know - I couldn't move if a full armed response team crashed in through the windows... so that kind of reduces the options to talking or watching telly... what's your favourite Christmas film?"

 

 

_"You make me say it every year! Why?! Why must you embarrass me like that every year?! Meanie." I pull Lucy in closer and whisper about Alan Rickman being a genius._

 

 

I smile broadly, lift up the remote. The DVD has already been loaded in the player. I move up to a slightly more upright position, you in the crook of my arm, Luce still stubbornly sleeping on the angle of your chest.

The Christmas tree sheds warm coloured light through the apartment, the dishwasher's soft buzz can be heard from the kitchen, as I press the button and the sound of an aeroplane landing comes from the speakers.

 


End file.
